“When you stand in front of me and look at me, what do you know of the grief that is in me and what do I know of yours? And if I were to cast myself down before you and tell you, what more would you know about me than you know about Hell when someone tells you it is hot and dreadful?”

– Franz Kafka

This is your letter. These are your words.


If I leave you in the morning and walk into the ocean, never to return, I want you to always hear my voice. Above the current and the pull of the moon on our watery tide – I want you to always know my voice, my words.


Sometimes we don’t say what we mean. Sometimes we don’t mean what we say.

And in some of our previous frozen mournings, when the alarm clock shrilled and I pulled my weary shell from our bed, I have always wanted you to know: My eyes were always open for you – I saw you there. Asleep and warm and far away from the duty of this new day.

But today, when you wake: I will not be there to meet you with kisses, for I will be gone.

And so,

Let these words be those kisses. Let these words sustain you for all time.

Let all this unspoken snapshot appreciation sound like a confession.


I miss those mornings, now so many lives ago when I was mad for you. And you were asleep with the comforter tucked between your legs. You were straddling a swollen sea of white. Puerile.

As I looped my tie and buttoned my shirt, I traced your outline and that one line with my finger – that top tip where your panties cut into your hip, framing your leg. Your curve.

Your heavy eyes opened and I curled my hand under the bend of your ass and down your thigh. Instead of words, this was my salutation. A slow smile was yours.

You clutched my hand and slid it between your warm thighs.

Standing before you, you undid what I just had accomplished in dressing: you unbuckled me. You exhaled as you reached in and pulled me out.

At this, the first touch of the new day, and we were sensitive. Gentle.

You took me into your mouth as I crawled over you, burying my head between your pulsating legs. Even clothed, I could feel the heat from your naked body. I peeled your panties to the side and cupped my mouth on everything you had.

I was late for work. But I would smile all the way through my day.

…all this only because we couldn’t get enough of the other. All this because this is how we spoke without words: This is how you told me that you wanted me more than you could even say.

…all this because we didn’t know how to say goodbye.


You whimpered in the middle of the night and I woke with my heart thumping.

Your plane was leaving in only a couple of hours and our hands laced together: on your tummy. My hip. Between us. Neither of us wanted to sleep and waste these last hours – but the torrents of emotions that, strung together, outlined our last couple of days wore us thin with sorrow.

And when the gray light of morning began to creep dreadfully into our silent, breathing room, I turned into you. I pressed myself into you, quietly at first. But you weren’t sleeping deeply either and you woke, pressing back into me.

Like a spoon, I cupped your entire body – holding all of you for as long as I could.

Still naked from our compression only hours before, I could feel your slick heat. Only when the blood left my head did I stop thinking and press myself hard – all the way inside you.

Half asleep and exhausted, we gyrated together. In a tired symphony, we danced one last time: closer to love than to orgasm. Closer to you than I would ever be again.

…all this because we didn’t know how to say goodbye.


For years I was mute and lazy with my language. I was young and hazy with understanding about these powers.

But, like you, I grew. And like a small child, I too learned how to say what I mean.

I want you to know that: If I failed you with my words, know that I gave you my entire body as my vocabulary. For years you owned everything physical about me.

And where my words were distraction and deceiving, our bodies together were not. They could not.


I know that everything, absolutely everything, dies – or worse: dissipates slowly.

Even in the beginning, when everything was idyllic, I knew that one day what we had would all rise to the hot and fiery heavens and never return.

Only now do I know that, in the tenebrous sadness that surrounds the death of love, the din of forever’s departure will not allow me a space to see you like this: like I now do. But it returns, those visions of you – from time-to-time, when you were: in that dress, across that ballroom, in that bed…

…taking me into your mouth in the middle of the night when I am already asleep, and you are wide awake and starving for me.

…pulling your dress up in the white wedding bathroom, before I am too drunk to get us home hotly.

…all this because: How are we supposed to really know how to say goodbye?

~ by The Provocateur on January 2, 2008.

4 Responses to “Goodbye”

  1. That was sad, and beautiful. Even in sadness we can find something hot.

  2. so, was this something that recently ended or in the past? it feels like you’ve been thinking about this for some time now. the writing’s hot, i’m just curious.

  3. An enjoyable read.

  4. So moving to read over again.

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